Stories From Around The World
by Little British Fangirl
Summary: A bunch of one-shots about our dear nations. Feel free to request!


It was a beautiful morning at this month's World Meeting. The sun was shining, the birds were singing- and England and France were glaring daggers at each other. No one pays them any mind, for this has come to be a normal occurrence. Today, though, it is just a mild disagreement. It probably won't go any further than trading insults with each other. At least, it would've been, if our favourite American didn't choose this moment to add fuel to the fire.

"Come on dudes, just kiss already!"

Believe it or not, this is the complete worst thing to say, as not even one perverted French laugh later, a scream of horror could be heard throughout the meeting room. ("Get your hands off of me, you bloody Frog!")

And just like that, the punches are thrown on England and France's fighting island. By now, all of the other nations have learnt to steer clear of the pair when they are fighting. Russia tried, once, but all he achieved was the disfiguration of his beloved pipe. It took a team of the world's best welders and blacksmiths to repair it, but even then it was never quite the same.

Although as it would happen, the two Nations hadn't always been at each other's throats. Oh, no. To begin with, they had gotten along quite well. There had been no serious conflicts between the two. The two had been subjected to multiple Viking invasions, so it is likely that England and France were too busy waging war upon Scandinavia to attack each other. To my knowledge, there are no historical recordings of both countries being allied with each other against the Vikings, though I believe that being so geographically close to each other and sharing a common goal must have lead to at least a truce. It is also quite possible that the two countries were each unaware of the other during this time period. I have questioned Arthur on the matter, but he refuses to answer. I think that he is probably too proud to admit it. If I have judged both their characters correctly, France probably wrote about their adventures extensively. England probably set them on fire whilst he slept.

Some of their royals even married. As to whether either party was happy about this, we shall never know. However, any foundations for a fully positive relationship they may have once had went down the drain in 1066. The English King was shot in the eye by an arrow, and the French King, William the Conqueror, earned his title. England was now trapped under French rule, and so began his bitter hatred towards the taller man, as well as his culture. To the other man, it was more of a game. He took a great pleasure in riling him up, yanking his chain, getting on his nerves. Nothing pleased the nation more than to see the Briton becoming flustered. As the years progressed, many conflicts arose between the two, driving their kinship deeper into the ground. But it is surprising what a bit of digging might uncover.

It was the Spring of '40, Mid-May to be precise, and the Second World War was a year strong. Brilliant really, because although the whole of Europe were at each other's throats, with foresight this meant that things had yet to get worse, and there appeared to be a definite chance of victory for the Allied forces, before things got bleak and took a turn for the worse. However, when these past events were the present, it just meant that there was a slight dip in the male population of Great Britain, and a shedload of paperwork for both the government and one Arthur Kirkland.

So, when a flustered MP burst into his office, the affirmed nation felt a surge of gratitude toward his fellow politician. "What is it, Wilson?" he asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

"Well sir." the man stuttered, momentarily rendered speechless as he tried to find an appropriate way to phrase the matter in hand in the presence of polite company. "It appears that the Jerry's had driven the soldiers back with their Blitzkrieg. They've been cornered at Dunkirk beach."

"Well then send reinforcements! Surely you don't have such little faith in the British Armed Forces that you think a couple of Germans can slow us down! We'll beat them back with numbers."

"Well, sir, I don't mean to be rude, but we have lost so many men already, even if some of them were French, the British, French, and Belgian combined forces are outnumbered seven to one. This is the British Expeditionary Force, and correct me if I am wrong, but we really don't want to lose them." This was all mumbled and spoken quite quickly, but being the British Gentleman he was, Arthur tried his best to decipher the meaning the first time around. In fact, he was so absorbed in weighing the pros and cons of having him repeat his sentence, he almost missed the last part. "We're pushed almost to the shoreline, sir. We are holding our own quite well at the moment, but with the strength of the German armies, they'll have wiped us all out by the end of the week. France will become German territory."

As the man spoke, he became quieter and quieter, until his final sentence was only a whisper. But after the whisper came silence and, as Wilson soon found out, it is the silence that is heard most. You see, during this small speech, Arthur was at first rather uninterested. He had migrated rather quickly from entertaining the idea of giving the man a raise to demoting him for daring to go against his decision. In any other circumstance, he would have been most interested in hearing what the other man had to say. Unfortunately, he had several different things to do that had really needed to be finished by yesterday, and Winston had bothering him to act happier and to relax because it was beginning to affect the country's morale. Arthur found the situation to be quite contradictory, and to top it all off his tea was cold. He was quite absorbed in his thoughts, only a couple of words were properly absorbed. But it only took one sentence to spur him into action.

_France will become German territory. _

He literally jumped into action. Springing out of his seat, the self-proclaimed gentleman's demeanour was now more reminiscent of the one he wore in his pirate days. Under any other circumstances, this wouldn't have been nearly enough to provoke a reaction. But as it happened, Dunkirk was on the shoreline entering the English Channel. This was very bad news for England, as his Expeditionary Force was pinned in, and were probably sitting ducks to the German Forces. If, no when they were overpowered, that would leave free access to the Channel, and they could set sail to English shores! And besides, if they took him over, they would have made the grave mistake of taking over his brothers too, which was a fate he wouldn't wish on even Germany. He already had Italy to deal with. And, he supposed he didn't want France taken over either, but because not because he would miss him, no. Not at all. His reasons were purely selfish, and don't even think about contradicting him!

"Wilson, get me on the next train to Dover. Send word to Bertram Ramsay, tell him we'll probably need the little boats, the shore is quite shallow there."

"But sir! You can't go out! I mean, what if something happens to you, it won't do the country much good, and what with the rations and everything-"

"Wilson, shut up or I may have to reconsider your promotion. Now fetch me my umbrella."

The MP hurried to the umbrella stand beside the door of Arthur's office. Donning his blazer, the nation quickly strode to meet him and carefully slid the umbrella from his grasp as he walked out of his office door. This left a befuddled Wilson gaping in his wake as he tried to process everything that had just happened.

One train ride later, Arthur was in Dover, where a painful meeting took place. It took much arguing, sarcasm and passive aggression, (for the first few days of the rescue, the government officials refused to acknowledge that soldiers having to wade out to the big boats was a bad idea), but the people present finally managed to agree on these terms:

Boats would be sent out to the French shorelines, and troops would be evacuated. Churchill suspected that they could fetch back about 30,000 of their forces, and maybe some of them could be French (a grudge didn't make the British government heartless, those were innocent soldiers). Arthur Kirkland, however was only interested in one Frenchman in particular.

Water sloshed around into the walls of the 'vessel' England captained. Granted, it was only a little fishing boat, but it was his, and it had been so long since he had felt the sea air whipping through his hair. He could practically feel the stiff leather of his eye patch digging into his scalp. Arthur had not felt this alive in a long time.

He, and about twenty others made up the last 'platoon'. It had been slow going, but their rescue mission was almost complete. England had rowed across the channel for his men several time now, and with each return journey he felt more jovial. But Arthur knew for a fact that the rest of his men were going to be safe. His journey was dedicated to an entirely different purpose, because although almost all of the British troops were safe now, there was still some others to be saved. And a friend to find.

Squinting up at the sky, England sighed in relief. There weren't any planes as of yet, so it probably wasn't too much to hope for no dogfights or the like this time around. It was bad enough the first few times around, as England had needed to manoeuvre his boat around poor souls that had been scrambling towards one of the bigger boats further out to sea, as well as watching out for bombs. Thankfully, it didn't go too badly; he only lost a couple of fingers, and they grew back in a day. Thank God he was ambidextrous. It appeared that the German troops had been called off, but one could never be too sure. Finally spotting the shoreline, England picked up the pace to cover the remainder of the body of water. He could see groups of soldiers, their uniforms dictating that the groups were a mix of French and English, chatting as amicably as one could on the circumstances.

_Trust a war to be the catalyst that brings us together._

Bringing the boat to a halt, England sat back and waited for the already nearing soldiers to board, so he could get them away from this bloody war zone. However, just as the first couple of men were climbing in, a figure on the shoreline caught Arthur's attention. With a quick mutter of "Steady the boat, and let some of the Frogs on too- I'll be right back." the Englishman exited the boat and began to slosh towards the person who had captured his vision. He couldn't be sure from this distance, but it had to be him; who else could be draped all over one of the French soldiers without having being punched? Or maybe he had- Arthur would have to congratulate him later, if that was the case- but why hadn't he pushed him off yet? And why was he still here anyway, he could have left at any time! There had been enough boats. Unless of course he was wrong, and he was just another bloody French soldier, messing with his head. For all he knew, Germany could've already got to him! Bloody idiot, making him worry- not that he cared enough to worry for the git. No. Just personal interests.

But it could be him. And Arthur had to know.

It was then that he received his confirmation. During Arthur's internal monologue, the group of soldiers had continued with their conversation. They didn't talk about anything too interesting; menial chatter really. Soon, the chatter turned to banter and before long, they were all laughing and joking together. One soldier, a private, shared what must have been quite a lewd joke, since his comrades burst into raucous laughter, one of the group letting out a deafening 'ohnohnohnohn'.

Arthur's head snapped to attention, his emerald eyes wide with shock. Incredulous, he gasped. "Frog?"

Presumably from shock, the man froze. His whole body tensed, as though he could hardly believe what he was hearing. Angling his head towards Arthur, the man's blond hair parted to reveal a pair of startling, blue eyes, a strong jawline, chin dusted with faint stubble-

"Angleterre?" The reply was shaky, as he still could hardly dare to believe his eyes. However, the Frenchman's confusion was only added to when he was enveloped in a bone crushing embrace by Arthur. Blue eyes wide with shock, he froze, brain whirring. Tentatively, he began to wrap his arms around the other, but before he managed to fully reciprocate, Arthur pulled away quickly. All of this took place in mere seconds, so Francis was understandably confused when he next received a swift punch to the face.

Sitting back on his haunches, he blinked owlishly as Arthur began to yell. "And don't even try to think that you didn't deserve that, you insufferable git! I've rowed across the Channel and back no less than six times before today! Six! And you didn't even think to let me know if you were still here! You- you could have been captured by Germany, or anything! I was so worried about yo-" He paused, and his eyes grew wide at the possible implications; something he would rather keep under wraps.

"I, um, I was worried about you letting the Jerry's get to Dover! Yes."

Still in shock, Francis brings a hand to his throbbing nose, only to retract it. Staring at his hand, he gasped on mild horror. "Arthur, I think I am bleeding. I was already aware that you packed a fair punch, but Dieu, I think you have broken my nose!"

"Oh, my. I, uh, well I hard hardly planned on, well what I mean to say is-"

"De rien. Apology accepted, mon ami."

At this, Arthur's eyes widened, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "I- no! I wasn't- I didn't-"

Chuckling in amusement, the taller of the two slung an arm around the other's shoulder, whilst they began to walk along the battle-worn stretch of sand. They walked in silence, one that felt comfortably awkward in these troubling times.

"I know you have something to tell me, Angleterre- I'm not an idiot, I can tell when something is troubling you."

As a matter of fact, Arthur had been quietly stewing ever since he had stumbled across his long time- was friend really the right word? Him partaking in this last trip had been planned (by Arthur himself) for a specific reason, one that he had been determined to carry out ever since he had set sail from his shores. Now it actually came to it, however, uncertainty prevailed. What if the Frog was offended by his offer? What if he was already too late to put his plan into action? Steeling himself, the Brit brought himself to the conclusion that he may as well get it over and done with. After all, he would be leaving in a matter of minutes, whatever the outcome.

"Look Frog, listen. Whether or not you had noticed, my men have been taken back home on the boats. And, I suppose you definitely noticed that we decided to take in a couple of yours. And don't you dare say a word! It took me days of arguing before they agreed to it!"

Sighing in frustration, Arthur didn't even notice the quiet gleam in Francis' eye, or the small smile he was displaying.

"Look, my point is, we've taken a few French soldiers already, but I could spare some room for one more? If you are willing to accompany me, that is."

The Frenchman was smiling more noticeably now, although the conflicting emotions flickering across the rest of his face didn't quite match.

"Oh, Angleterre. Thank you."

Suprised, the Brit's startling green eyes shot up to face the other man, his thick eyebrows rising with them. A small flicker of what could be hope shone in their depths.

"Alas." Francis continued. "I cannot accept your gracious offer. I feel that I shall soon fall, and I could not abandon my people like that. France will fall, I can feel it, but I won't go down without a fight. Besides, it will be fun to visit dear Prussia again. I will tell him you said hello."

Arthur scoffed at this, although it was evident that his heart was not in it. "You, put up a fight? Europe will be lost before the week is over!"

By now, the two had reached the Englishman's boat, where a group of soldiers were impatiently waiting to set sail. This time, the embrace was mutual.

The two men clung to each other like a lifeline, muttering nonesensical word of comfort to each other. All too soon, they pulled apart. Looking the other straight in the eye, Arthur mumbled "I'll miss you, you twat."

"And I you, mon cher." Francis leant forward, placing a kiss on Arthur's forehead.

The latter stepped onto the boat and sat next to an oar. Just as the men began to row, he lifted his hand in a quick salute. The other man returned the gesture.

England watched France's retreating form in silence as he and his evacuees rowed out to meet the White Cliffs of Dover. Internally, he sighed. Everything had suddenly become twelve times more complicated than they were before.

"So." One of the soldiers began. He was French; quite strong, apparently, as he was managing to say that with ease even whilst rowing with vigour.

The man spoke in broken, heavily accented English. "I think that- you, know? Oui, know Capitaine Bonnefoy?"

England smiled, taking on a nostalgic demeanour. "Ah, yes. I suppose we've met."

**《》**

**Word Count: 3,072**

**Well, I've finally finished it. This has taken me over a month to finish! Constructive criticism is appreciated. Also, this will be fuelled by request, so even though I do have some ideas of my own, feel free to drop a request. It could be a songfic, anything. Only, I won't do any explicit scenes, or incest ships.**

**Thanks!**


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